


Bittersweet

by claudia6913



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia6913/pseuds/claudia6913
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike wants to end their torrid affair, but can he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Joss owns all, I just borrow.

**Bittersweet**

In the beginning, demons ruled the earth.  It had literally been hell on earth until the human population rose up against them and the demons were banished to their own hell.  However, one demon mixed its blood with that of a human.  Vampires were born then, from the mixture of blood.  They roamed the earth, passing for human, only to show their true faces when they fed off the blood of their cousins.  
   
Then some ancient shamans decided that they needed someone, a protector, to fight against the remaining demons, thus ensuring humans would remain the keepers of the earth.  
   
Right; all good in theory.  
   
What Spike wanted to know was why they'd chosen a female to be their guardian?  The human race had always been patriarchal.  It didn't make sense.  If they had chosen a man, Spike doubted he would be in the situation he was.  
   
But, they had not made the Slayer male.  She was female, through and through.  Given abilities and knowledge, trained and honed until she herself was the very weapon they'd set out to create.  And she did her job, she slayed the demons, the vampires, only to die young at the hands of the very things she'd been created to kill.  
   
And so the vicious cycle continued.  Until Buffy.  She had defied death not just once, but twice, having just recently risen from her grave due to Willow's spell.  Ripped from heaven, she had said, pulled to a world that was her own, but looked more like hell to her then it ever had before.  
   
Somehow, along the way, Spike had become her whipping post.  
   
There was also a fundamental law in the demon world.  The Slayer slayed demons, the demons slayed the Slayer.  It was the way things went; the way they had gone for eons, for more years then anyone could count.  The Slayer had been made for that purpose, to serve that goal.  She was short lived, true, but there would always be a Slayer, just like there would always be more demons than any one Slayer could kill.  
   
But, you did not mix the two.  
   
Spike knew this law, even poked fun at Angel for breaking it, for falling in love with the Slayer.  He blamed that mishap on Angel's soul, thinking it was what had drawn him to Buffy.    
   
They were vampires, Angel and Spike, not meant to fall for the Slayer, but kill her, drink her blood like wine, savor the thrill.  That had been Spike's goal in the beginning before his unlife had been turned upside down and tumbled around.  He had been almost single-minded in that goal.  And it was an easy creed to live by.  Kill the Slayer, drink her blood, hang back, and wait for the next one.  Hell, he'd killed two before Buffy came along.  He _was_ the slayer of Slayers, and he was proud of that.  
   
But now, Spike was ashamed of what he was reduced to.  He wanted to blame it all on the chip; say it was fucking up his thinking, making the simple hatred he should feel for her turn into something that, in his former glory, he had scoffed and laughed at.   
   
He watched her, stalked her, fucked her, and loved her...but that did not mean he wanted it.  That did not mean he could handle it.  It broke him in ways that no one and nothing had ever been able to break him before.  He could still feel her, the scent of her, the sound of her, the hardness all around him, but he didn't want it.  Not like that.  
   
Spike had been ecstatic when she had first come to him, kissing him in the dark, sharing secrets that she would never tell anyone else.  He had thought he wanted it...hell, he did at the time.  That was all changed now.    
   
Or so he said to her - to himself.    
   
Tossing the cigarette, Spike lit another one and watched the play of shadows inside the Summers' home.  He knew what he looked like, a creature of the night, gazing longingly at the light.  He knew the significance of that, but he didn't care.  Still he watched, trying to make out the different shadows.  
   
Spike thought if he waited long enough she would come out, search him out again.  Beg for him to fill her, to fuck her.  He wanted her to come out and ask for everything he could give her...just to tell her to bugger off.  So he could tell her that he was not going to be her bloody dog, coming when she called.  He wanted to tell her that.  He had actually practiced it a few times before coming to the house.  But she did not emerge.  Instead, it looked as if tonight she had herself under control.  Spike pushed back the disappointment that wanted to bubble forth, telling himself he didn't need her, didn't want her.  
   
Spinning on his heels, he watched as dawn neared the horizon, and headed back to his crypt.  He would just have to wait for her there.  Spike knew she would appear sooner or later, like she always did.  And he would be waiting for her, like he always did.  
   
No, he couldn't wait for her, not there.  He should make her find him, search him out.  Then, when she came to him, pissed she had to search, he could then proceed to tell her to fuck off.  Have her waste a trip for nothing, because that was exactly what she would get from him.  Nothing.  Not a by your by, not a quick shag...nothing.  
   
Saying goodbye to the last of the night Spike first went to his crypt.  If he were going to spend time away from it, he would at least need his blood.  Oh, and that whisky bottle.  Alcohol would help, he thought, to keep him from stumbling through the words.  To keep his mind on his goal.    
   
He looked toward the covered windows of his crypt, feeling daylight finally stream across the horizon.  He would have to take the sewers now, but that wouldn’t slow him down.  
   
"Doesn't care, never did," Spike said to the empty room.  He gathered things that were of no importance in the scheme of things.  Just items he’d gathered along the way, mementos to a life he no longer craved.  He didn’t pay attention as he shoved things into the pack, hadn’t known a unicorn left over from the brief but dreadful tryst with Harmony, slinked its way in.  His mind was elsewhere.   
   
"I just want to feel," Spike said, his voice going into a falsetto to mimic that of Buffy.  
   
He scoffed at that, stopping his pacing and gathering to light a smoke.  Oh, he had helped her feel alright.  Helped her feel what it was like to be skewered against a wall, helped her feel what it was like to literally bring a house down around them.  Oh, he had made her feel as she had made him feel and he was sick to death with it now.  Numbness would be preferable.  
   
"Bloody well let her feel something," Spike said to himself.  "My boot to her arse."  
   
He stopped, a familiar warning taking him over.  It was danger and alarm bells, death and flowers...it was the Slayer.  She had come sooner then he thought she would and during the day.  She had done this before, come during the day, but Spike knew her game, knew how much of it was for show and dramatics.  He knew she would barge in there without knocking, knew what words would come from her mouth before she left by way of the light, trying to show him that she was above him, but he knew better.  He knew that it was all just a show, knew that deep down she felt about one inch high.  He could see her disgust with herself written all over her face, just as he hoped his was molded the same.  
   
The door cracked open and Spike rolled his eyes, adding 'lock' to his growing list of things to get for the crypt should he decide to stay.  He was still wish-y washy on that subject.  It was his home, why should he be the one to high tail it out of there.  However, if he followed through, if he did what he’d been planning for so many nights now, leaving would be the best bet.  
   
"Spike!” Buffy called out.  She slammed the door behind her.  It cracked around the edges, showing just how much she did not care.  No, Spike could see she was all fired up about something.  He wondered what it was this time that had her seeking refuge in him.  
   
"Spike, I know you're in here.  I can...feel you," Buffy said with a hint of disgust in her voice.  He listened and heard her walk a few more steps into the crypt.  
"Just bet you can, Luv," Spike said, stepping out of the shadows.  He went for dramatics whenever he could.  And he could see his entrance did not disappoint as Buffy's eyes widened for a moment, clouding over with lust as her heart rate picked up, before she gained control of herself.  
   
He had made sure that his black silk shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, that his pants were unbuttoned; leaving a pale white trail right to what she seemed to want most.  And he had planned that, expected she would want it.  It would make the denying of it that much sweeter.  
   
Buffy's eyes rolled, trying to clear her head.  He could see her mind working, looking for excuses he had heard before.  It was always the same.  She would come in, all self-righteous, huffing on about how he did not deserve her and that he was nothing more then a monster, a demon.  He could not argue there.  He was demon through and through.  He could feel it every time the Slayer was near, could taste it every time he smelled blood.  
   
"Look, just stop with the lewd comments for a minute, Spike," Buffy said.  Spike pinned her with his stare, looking directly into her eyes.  He stepped forward slowly, wanting to show her just who the predator was, just who was more dangerous.  And it had worked; she'd backed up a few steps before she gained control of herself and stood her ground, watching him watch her.  
   
"What is it this time, Slayer?” Spike asked, taking another hit of the cigarette.  
   
"I need…," she said, faltering over the words.  He could hear the ending, the _you_ that was always so close to the surface yet she always, always pushed it away.  Never would she utter that last word, the one that would probably make his insides crumble and his heart beat for a pure second.  That one word held the weight of Spike’s world.  If she would utter it, he would be done for, lost in his emotions and in her.  But she wouldn’t.  Too proud, too noble, too … _good_.  
   
“Need what, Slayer?” Spike asked, adding a bit of venom to his voice.  He watched as she flinched from the sting of it and smiled to himself.  Perhaps this would be more fun than painful.  Perhaps … perhaps he could do this.  Push her away and out of his unlife, get her out of his system and move on, shove off.  
Without speaking, she stepped closer, filling his vision with her soft skin and scented hair, making it harder to breathe, harder to remember the words he’d had prepared should she come at him like this again.  
   
“You know what,” she sneered, pulling his face to hers roughly.  Her fingers held his life in them, and that was part of the allure, that she could remove his head with a twist and a pull and he’d be nothing but a pile of ashes.  She was dangerous to him, so dangerous and deadly and it pulled him in, drew upon his being until he couldn't help but crave it, just as countless humans had craved his harsh touches and fangs in the past.   
   
Her lips crushed his with blind and incessant need, and he reciprocated, silently disgusted with himself as he let their tongues battle for dominance.  He was alpha, master, vampire.  He should rightly own the world and all those within it, be above all the petty humans.  It was in his nature to posses, to own, to rule with an iron fist and fangs, to bathe in the blood of those that were lesser than him.  But she refused to accept that, instead forcing her way to the top seat, forcing him to recognize her as superior.  
   
Not today.  Not ever again.  
   
He broke away; panting with unneeded breath, a little proud that she was just as affected.  
   
“What?” Buffy asked, clearly annoyed.  He knew she was already regretting that question from the soft sigh and slight roll of her eyes after the word escaped her lips.  
   
“Bit of a rush, ain’t we?” he asked, taking a few steps back.    
   
“I’ve got stuff I have to get back to,” she said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.  She didn’t look at him when she said it and he took it as the lie it was.  There was nothing immediate that was calling her attention, other than the self-loathing she felt every time she stepped through his door.  
   
“Right,” Spike said, lighting a cigarette. He’d enjoy this a bit more than he thought, the slow drawn out painful process of getting her to see the err in their ways; showing her, with painfully blunt and harsh words, just how much he no longer wanted to be her escape.  “How ‘bout we try this again, yea?”  
   
“What is this, Spike? I didn’t come here to talk.” 

“Know that, don’t I? Better than most, I’d wager.”  
   
“Don’t.”  
   
“Don’t what, pet?”  Mentally he shook himself. The little nicknames had to stop if he were to go through with this.  She was Slutty the Slayer, nemesis and all around pain in his arse.  
   
“Talk.  Stop with the talking.”  
   
“’S nothing wrong with words.  Find they’re helpful in gettin’ points and such across.”  
   
She sighed, and he smiled a crooked little smile, enjoying the frustration he was causing her.  It was her turn, he thought, to feel the pain being together held for him.  She caused him so much frustration, so much pain, he was nearly dying with the need to return it, to see her face crumble and tears fall from those glinting eyes.  Buffy had only seen a fraction of life, whereas he had seen more, hell, he’d _done_ more, most of which would get her knickers in a twist to hear.  
   
“Oh, by all means,” she said, making a wide arc to show he had the floor.  “Please, enlighten me, Spike, with your opinions.”  She scoffed, angering him further.   
   
“You have nothing to say that I want to hear.  I thought we had this understanding, but apparently not.  You are nothing to me, Spike.  Nothing.  You hear me?” 

With speed only used when needed, he ran up to the Slayer and grabbed her in a chokehold, and pushed her hard against the crypt wall, making the dust shake to the floor.  
   
“If I’m so much of nothin’, then why are you always pokin’ around here, eh?”  She struggled against him and he smiled, letting his tongue run across his teeth.  “The way I see it is you’ve got an itch you want scratched, but you’re too proud a bint to admit to it. Sad that. Could’ve had a bit more fun.  But the way I’m seein’ it now, you won’t change.  You’ll always be bloody too high an’ mighty for the likes of me an’ I won’t be havin’ it any longer.”  
   
“Let go of me,” she grunted, pushing his hands away.  He let her.  There was fire in her eyes and he was itching for a fight like this.  Begging for it.  
   
"Gladly," he said, pacing further back into his crypt.   
   
"I don't know what's gotten into you," she said, rubbing her neck.  He thought it sad there weren't bruises blooming on her skin, marking her.  
   
"You did!" he yelled, pointing at her.  "You bloody well did.  Got all under my skin makin' me itch.  Can't soddin' stand it anymore."  
   
"Then take a bath," Buffy said, turning to leave.   
   
She had made it as far as the door before Spike yanked her back, closing the door behind her, bathing them once more in the dark.  
   
"Don't you bloody dare," Spike threatened, tossing her to the back of the crypt.  She tripped and fell into a sarcophagus; one he remembered they’d had particular fun on.  
   
"Don't I dare what?" she screeched, righting herself.  "You obviously have some issues you need to work out and I don't need to be here while you do that.  In fact, I don't need to be around you period.  It's over, Spike."  
   
He couldn't believe it.  Howling with laughter, he bent over with it, holding his gut.  How many times now had she said that?  How many times now had she come crawling back, begging for just a little more.  
   
"Heard that one before," he said, slowly regaining control of himself.  "An' I 'spose I'd be hearin' it again.  But I won't."  
   
"You're right, because I won't _have_ to say it again."  
   
"Bloody right you won't."  
   
"I'm outta here."  
   
"In a mo'.  I'm not done yet, Slayer."  
   
She stared at him, and he saw amazement written on her face.  He wasn't following the script, wasn't being a good little dog.  It felt good too - freeing.  Granted, it wasn't without its twinges of pain, but he would live through it and had lived through worse pain.  In the end, it wouldn't matter, he would be free of her.  
   
"There's nothing more I want to hear," she said, taking another step forward, stopping when he mimicked her.  He watched as her eyes shrank to slits and felt the anger that began flowing from her.  
   
"Who said it mattered what you wanted or didn't want?" Spike asked, taking another step forward.  There was fire in his veins now, and she was the fuel that kept it burning hot.  "Never seemed to matter what I wanted, did it?  'Course not, you selfish bint.  Takin' what you want an' swaggerin' away 'fore anyone's the wiser. Think it's all yours, that you bloody deserve it or some rot.  Well, I've got news for you - I'm not soddin' yours.  Never will be yours in any way.  This is it.  No more.  
   
"Get your kicks somewhere else, Slayer.  Or drown in your own self-pity and bring the whole lot of you down, doesn't matter to me.  Just keep in mind when the ship sinks who was keeping secrets from whom."  
   
The words were out, the weight lifted, and he stepped back smiling at the shocked look on her face.  It wasn't enough, never enough, but some day down the road his words would eat at her and either she would shape up and put her world to rights, or they would all go down in a blaze of glory and Spike would be watching from the wings, free from the chip, free from her.  
   
Without a backwards glance to the woman who had wrought him so much pain and confusion over the years, he grabbed his pack and dropped to the basement of his crypt.  He heard as she sank to the floor, smelled the tears as they formed.  For a moment he debated staying to watch the show.  Shaking his head, he headed for the sewer entrance.  Africa sounded good about this time of year, he thought.  
   
 **~END~**  
 


End file.
